


Penumbra

by vOceanic



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angry Asra, Forgiveness, Gen, Gender Neutral Apprentice, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gentle Sex, Hurt and comfort, Multi, Other, Recovered Memories, Smut, The Lazaret, The plague, love and romance, romantic sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-03-29 14:03:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vOceanic/pseuds/vOceanic
Summary: After Asra casts a dream-swapping spell, you remember everything. And it hurts.This romantic, contemplative fic is written in 2nd-person with a gender-neutral apprentice - all fan apprentices welcome.[Complete]





	1. The Lazaret

**I.**

Dawn breaks gently. You crack an eye open to sunlight dancing through the windows. Golden, it alights on Asra’s pure, snowy hair and thick eyelashes, gilding the white like gold on snow.

He stirs like a dozing cat, stretching long arms overhead. You admire the deep, tawny brown of his skin reflexively. He’s always after you about daily meditation, but he doesn’t know you do meditate. Just not on the Arcana, but on him.

Faust slithers up the bed, moving stealthily onto his chest. She waits, then flicks a bristly little tongue against Asra’s lips.

His indigo eyes flutter open in shock. He sits up too quickly, jostling Faust onto the blanket. The small, creaky bed you share groans. He looks distraught.

“Nightmare?” you ask softly.

He nods, sending his fluffy white hair flying. “A bad one. A flock of red insects whirling, chirring, clicking…”

Your heart thuds. It’s the same nightmare you had the night before last. Normally it’s you who shudders awake, trying to climb out of sleep like it’s a pile of sinking quicksand.

“I don’t wish my nightmares on anyone.” Before you can stop it, your hand reaches out and gently strokes the length of Asra’s bare chest. He flushes to the tips of his ears. A thought forms in your mind.

“Well…” The word is a sigh.

Your fingers curl against his breast. “You didn’t —“

“Cast the dream-swapping spell? I might’ve.” As Faust slithers back up and onto his shoulders, he assumes a meditative pose.

You try to glare, but secretly you’re thankful. “My dreams aren’t your property.”

“And neither are you,” he says softly. “But I think your dreams mean something, so I had to see them for myself.”

“And what do they mean, great magician?” You’re only half-sarcastic.

His brow furrows darkly. Though the images didn’t come to you last night, you can still see echoes of them from the weeks before:

_A glistening, many-legged red cloud boils out of the south, wrapping Vesuvia’s castle in an aura the color of fresh, running blood. The cloud blots the sun the way a hand hides a lamp, and inky purple darkness washes over the city._

“It’s too detailed to be a prophecy,” he says, but the words are hollow. “Unless you’re the greatest dream oracle to ever live.”

“You’re the one that says all things are possible.” You gently stroke Faust’s head.

Silence hangs, golden in the new-morning air.

Asra impulsively takes your hands, gently caressing your knuckles with his thumb. “Let’s leave the dream world. Make us breakfast, would you?”

“Sure. What’ll it be?”

He touches your fingertips and sends you images of blueberry pancakes slathered in syrup and cinnamon, and tall sweating glasses of golden chai tea with foamy white cream. You get out of bed, tasting fragrant blueberries on your tongue —

But the instant your foot hits the floor, reality ripples.

The dream-swapping spell. Did Asra forget? It gave you his dreams, too.

Only, now that you’ve woken — pulled yourself out of the warm pool of sleep — do you remember.

Asra calls your name, high and sharp. You turn to him, but the shop is gone.

Replaced with the island. The abattoir.

**II.**

Far away, you hear yourself breathe in with a rattling hiss. In front of you, beside you, all around you are bodies of every color, young and old. Some still feebly kick out, clinging to life. There is shrieking, sobbing.

Worst of all, the continued whirl of hot red sparks spuming up into the black-purple sky.

Pyres.

In shadowy bird-like dress, the doctors are shoving some of the still-living bodies into the greedy maw of the flames. Heady roast meat smells churn your stomach.

You are lying on a blood-soaked cushion of moss, eye to eye with the vacant face of a dead child. You want to scream and cry out, but the Plague has eaten you from the inside out, leaving your lungs and bones like sacks of water.

In your high-pitched delirium, magic crackles along your fingertips, weak and impotent. You’re not close to the pyre, not yet. But if the doctors keep their work up all night, you’ll be fed to the flames before the sun brightens the sky. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

Tears trickle down your red, fevered cheeks. They burn and scald.

In your mind’s eye, you see the face of your Master. He had been gone, alone on one of his faraway voyages. All those finger kisses and late night magical philosophy talks — the shop and sweet cardamom coffees — gone.

You’re not going to say goodbye.

You tremble with grief. You feel stirrings of feeling for Asra. Something more than a bumbling, devoted student with a crush. He was always there. He kissed the thrumming pulse in your wrist. It hurts.

One of the doctors, bigger and more imposing than the rest, lumbers toward you. A sylphlike, twilit shadow stalks beside him.

You can’t move, but you think it’s Asra, with his red shroud pulled tight around his mouth and nose. His eyes, though, are dead black holes, so different that you almost don’t recognize him.

He and the big doctor dart from pile to pile as ash fills the night.

 _I’m right here!_ You want to shout, but you can’t.

And you hear Asra shouting. He never shouts.

“Godsdamnit, Ilya! If they’re gone, I’ll curse you! I’ll curse your lineage a thousand years hence!”

“It’s not my fault! They were lying face down in the street!”

“That’s when you take them to the shop, you brainless —“ Asra’s voice catches. He’s getting closer.

“You were gone. I thought you abandoned them.”

“I will never abandon them.” His voice shakes. You will him to recognize you in your reduced state, among the pile of bodies.

“You could’ve fooled me, with all your voyaging.”

“They know I’d never abandon them.” He sounds certain. You’re shaking.

“And if I saved everyone from Vesuvia, we would never contain the plague.”

“Then let Vesuvia burn,” Asra hisses, so close now you can feel his breath, see his rage.

Concentrating all of your will — your magic — you reach out and take his wrist. He knows you at once. He gathers you close, murmuring words of comfort and love in your ear. You can feel his body shuddering like evergreen branches in a stiff, high winter wind.

Among all the flame and ash and raging fever, his chest is blessedly cool against your forehead.

Unfortunately, you’ve attracted the attention of the doctors.

They ring around you in a semi-circle. They look like demons, eerie shades in cloaks that ripple against the fire-stained night.

The eyes of their birdlike masks are chill. Heartless.

Ilya, coward that he is, vanishes into the dim.

“No one gets off this island alive.” When the lead doctor speaks, his voice is like deep, creaking wood.

Asra stiffens. You loll bonelessly against him, pleading _not the fire. Please._

The doctor lifts his hands. “That person is already gone. Nobody recovers from the Plague.” There’s a hint of awe in his voice. “And even if they look at you and still breathe, they’re just a husk. Everything has been burned out of them.”

 _No!_ you want to shout. _I’m still here!_

“Put them down,” the doctor commands. “Or face the consequences.”

Asra’s face goes completely still like a funeral mask.

You’ve never seen his raw, primal fury. In the hungry glow of the pyres, his face is like an avenging angel’s: gloried and terrifying.

The first bird-doctor lunges for him. He dances back and calls an ancient word, and like marionettes, the doctors all jerk to the right.

A sound like branches crunching underfoot: bones.

Now the other doctors drop their cargo and rush you both, capes fluttering like bats. Asra gently sets you down to do battle. His hands move fluidly. Sometimes hot jets of fire spring from his fingers. He gets slower, the bird doctors thicker, and all you can think is that if a single bird-doctor gets through, you’ll be fed to the fires like kindling.

You shriek. Your voice is high and rasping. After a long, long time, the island is silent.

Panting, Asra hefts you into his arms, gore smudged across his brow. You struggle to get away from him. Everything he’s ever taught you — nonviolence, anger is not the answer — is crumbling and fading away.

Pain and fear mar his features. Sadness.

Then you can see him make his decision. He whispers a spell to knock you out, and you hear his thoughts: _let me take you home._

**III.**

_Home._

Faust’s tongue lightly flicks your nose.

You grasp her, then feel yourself snap back to reality.

You scramble back and gaze up at Asra, blinking. Fresh knowledge: you used to be lovers, and he has killed.

He looks deeply, painfully wounded.

He reaches down, offering you a hand. After hesitation, you take it.

“Asra…”

“I…don’t know what came over me. I needed to dream-swap to see your dreams, but I was hoping you wouldn’t see—that your memory-locks would keep your memories far away from you.” He breathes out roughly.

You say nothing.

“I had to save you. I saw you lying there after Ilya —“ His voice cracks. His deep indigo eyes glisten with unspent tears. “I vowed to walk the white path. I failed. And I understand if you can’t forgive me.”

You breathe out, long and slow.

Yes, there was violence.

But there was also the roaring hunger of the pyres and the wails of the dying. It was like hell, and Asra snatched you from its jaws.

“I forgive you,” you say.

He pulls you up onto the bed and holds you close — close enough to feel the flutter of his heartbeat, feel the magic simmering just below his tawny, golden skin. He covers your face with butterfly kisses, along the ridges of your cheeks, the bridge of your nose .

You fall slowly into him.


	2. Memory is a Reflecting Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't help your suspicions. Asra leads you into the forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a love scene near the end.

* * *

 

“Walk with me.”

He says it after you send an hour nibbling fruitlessly on pancakes, and haven’t eaten more than half.

Faust coils tightly around his arm. She watches you with dull pink eyes, tongue tasting the air — and your aura.

You want so badly to wipe any accusation or malaise off your face, but it doesn’t matter. Asra can sense it. The atmosphere in the shop is building, growing electricity like a thunderhead.

He holds his hand out, and you take it. Together you step out into Vesuvia’s blinding sun. He flips the shop’s ornate sign (decorated with hummingbirds) from _Open_ to _Closed._  

“I don’t think you’ve blinked since you snapped back this morning,” he remarks casually.

“I…don’t really know who you are. Or who I am. Not anymore.”

His shoulders slump, and he nods.

You both begin walking through the thronging city. Even though massive waves of people ebb and flow around you — clouds of spice redolent on the air, the squawks of jewel-toned parrots in burnt copper cages echoing — it’s like you and Asra are alone.

Alone, with only his bare feet leaving dusty prints in the white-sand-sprinkled roads.

Faust, of course, is just happy to be going.

You pass stalls hawking brilliant blue crystals, vials of dusky orange liquid, monkeys on collars. You almost pause beside a booth with brightly painted mechanical birds.

And still, all you can think is — _what were we?_

Eventually you find that you’re on the quiet path to the forest, leaving the wild sounds, smells, and sights of the city behind. A sharp turn off the beaten path takes you deeper into the heart of the trees.

Finally: quiet.

Towering Vesuvian smooth-bark birches arch overhead, dappling the ground with green and gold, light and shadow. You both plunge deeper into the forest. You follow him.

Then there’s a glass-clear lake. Two swans rest atop it, snowy plumage bright against the forest palette of hunter green, brown, and gold.

_Swans mate for life_ , you think, though you’re not sure if that’s a myth or not.

As you watch, they glide past, then take wing.

Asra sits. He dangles his bare toes in the water. You do the same.

The water is so clear that you can see the bottom. It’s deep, and like a rainforest floating in the sky: a tangle of branches and hidden pathways, leaves and slick moss.

Asra’s feet gently stir the water, startling fish that look like blown glass.

You mouth the words, then speak them into the golden silence.

“What were we?”

“Your memories. I don’t want to bring them back before you’re ready. You blacked out on me once. I can’t let it happen again.”

“Asra.” You take his wrist. In the lake, the fish drift back and forth. “I’m here. I’m awake. I need to know. I can’t live a lie.”

“What kind of lie are you living?” He half-smiles, and your heart flutters. “You and I are together. We both practice magic. We still live in the shop. It’s the same.”

“ _Asra._ ”

He breathes out. “Lovers. We were lovers.”

The word pierces your chest like an arrow, and you feel like an idiot. The shared bed. The easy intimacy. _Why didn’t I know earlier?_

“For how long?”

Now he blows air out in a puff. “A while.”

“And you couldn’t tell me?”

“Something bad happened. Something worse. It’s not just the Plague that took your memories.”

You both wait tensely for a second, to see if it will all come roaring back. It doesn’t.

“What happened?”

He says nothing.

You take his lean, golden hands and squeeze them hard.

“Asra, if I was your lover, I want to be the person you loved. I want everything back.”

“You are still that person.” He cups your cheek, burying his fingers deep in your hair. His fingers feel like slants of light along your cheekbone. His lavender eyes darken. “And you will always be that person. I wanted to give you the chance to love me again, but I wasn’t sure I deserved it.”

“What do you mean?”

He places a finger on your lips, hushing you gently.

He follows this with a kiss. The kiss is warm and rich, his mouth greedy against yours, hot like the sun. His lips are smooth against yours. Like silk.

He presses you down into the woody undergrowth, crushing leaves and releasing piney scents. Blossoms and twigs tangle against you.

Faust takes this moment to ease off of Asra’s arm and dive into the forest.

Your magic responds to his caresses — he’s calling it forth like a warm, rising tide, his nimble fingers stroking your body again and again, painting it with invisible colors.

His mouth shifts down to your throat, hovering above your pulse. His hands — you can feel the aching need in them — peel off layers of your clothes.

Naked, you slip out from under him into the lucid waters. Shucking off his robe, he joins you.

You kiss, weightless in the water. You can feel the past tickling your mind: _how many times have we done this?_ But for now, you lose yourself.

When he takes your hips and squeezes them, you feel an echo of your new relationship: master and apprentice. The kissing becomes hotter, feverish. You bury your teeth in the juncture of his neck and shoulder, wanting to possess him, to demand _give me back what’s mine._

He tows you to shore. You meekly spread your legs and offer yourself up to him, and he takes you.

There’s a hollow burning when he does. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s taken you, since your memories were lost.

Deep inside of you, he tilts his head back — sunlight illuminates the droplets in his white hair, making an iridescent halo in the forest.

He shifts a certain way and lies down, and you writhe and bite his neck, your consciousness peaking somewhere in his warm, good smell and the slickness of wet flesh.

When it’s over, his hands caress you, from the tip of your nose to the base of your belly, over and over again. The sun is slanting red through the treetops.

“Did that feel good?” He tries to keep the concern out of his voice.

“Yes.” You nuzzle his neck, nibble his earlobe.

“Good,” he says quietly. “I want to lie here with you forever, but we need to get out of this forest before nightfall.”

He helps you gather back into your clothes, long golden fingers fussing with this tie or that ribbon. He knows these clothes.

He looks at your face and sees that look in your eyes. His smile startles you.

“I can see the old you re-emerging. You used to be so much more…suspicious.”

With a bell-like laugh, he gathers waiting Faust into his arms.


	3. The Memory Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeking answers, you lull Asra to sleep. But will you be happy with what you find?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More love-scenes at the beginning of the chapter.

* * *

 

**I.**

That night, it’s a competition to see who’s going to fall asleep first.

Of course it’s going to be him. It has to be — you think that tonight’s the only night you’ll have the courage to recover your memories.

After doing two readings — one for an ancient widower, one for a sweaty business owner — the shop is closed again.

Asra has to have you. Your questions have reawakened a need in him. And if some distant, faded memory recalls correctly, sex sends him to sleep almost at once.

The lovemaking is faintly familiar, too. He burns all sorts of candles: long, tapered red ones, short black ones, clear jelly ones with starfish suspended in them.

He lights incense. The air in the shop hangs hot, heavy, and close, full of smoke. Mint and dragon’s breath curl in your nostrils.

The candlelight flickers around you both like a galaxy of fallen stars.

His eyes never leave your body as you slowly undress, teasing him with flirty movements. The creamy golden light paints Asra in dusk-winged shadows.

As he draws near, placing a gentle kiss on your cheek, it feels almost like making love to a spirit.

First he takes your hands, kissing the fingertips down to the palms. Then he twines your fingers in his ice-white hair. His kisses trail down your chest, pausing at each nipple.  He tugs on them, mouths them. The tip of his tongue sends a ripple of pleasure down your spine.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, and you worry you’ll fall back.

His mouth travels downward, swirling light patterns across your skin. Those contrails feel like the paths of shooting stars.

He takes you into his arms and carries you to bed, then kneels between your legs. You gasp, writhe in pleasure as his tongue sweeps back and forth like a pendulum.

It feels good.

Your hands close over the back of his neck, holding him in place. His eyes — a light, shiny lavender, because he’s happy — sparkle up at you.

It feels so familiar. He knows all the spots that make you tremble, weak with pleasure. His fingertips trace the tips of your ears — his sweet mouth caresses your collarbone.

Like myrrh and smoke and sweetness, his scent envelops you in a cloud.

You both finish with him deep inside of you, his rhythmic breaths gently stirring your hair.

Then you both lie back, naked, watching the starry points of light revolve on the ceiling.

He buries his nose in your neck. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that you decided to love me again. It’s…almost more special than the first time.”

You say nothing, tracing swirls across his bare, lean chest. Sleep tugs on you, but you fight it.

His ghostly lashes slip closed once, twice. His breath takes on a deep, steady rhythm. You could listen to it forever — except you can’t. You need answers.

When he’s fully asleep, you hesitate, wondering if these new memories will vanish when you recover the old ones. If you’ll even like your old self.

If you’ll notice the change. If he will.

You steel yourself and gently squeeze Asra’s hand, breathing out the words to a spell. A spell to reveal someone’s inner secrets.

Above Asra’s chest, a colorful oasis blooms in miniature, limned in light. It’s a miniature mirror of his gateway, his colorful internal world.

He’s full of secrets, brimming with them. From _how to make the perfect banana bread_ to _arcane knowledge that should have been sealed away long ago._

You breathe out slowly, wondering if your own internal secret-scape would be this beautiful.

Your hand hesitates above the memory collection, wondering which one to pluck free. Beneath a cluster of glowing palm trees, you spot a tiny version of him naked again.

Pressing your fingertips to this projection — you can’t stop yourself — sparks a mélange of memories in your mind:

_Asra on his knees before you, draped in silky red ribbons. Your fingers tilting his chin up. Him purring with pleasure._

You snatch your fingers away.

_We were lovers._

You hadn’t realized the depth, breadth, and scope of that word: _lovers._

Shaking slightly, your fingers brush another palm tree. This one’s fronds are midnight blue and starry, swirling like galaxies.

A different memory. He lies naked on his stomach, on a red silk mat.

_Asra, did you ever wear clothes?_

Your fingers trace his thin shoulder blades, down to the sweet branches of his wrists, tickling his spine. The jojoba-aloe balm sinks into his skin, releasing heavenly fragrance.

He groans as your fingers slip to the top of his slim buttocks.

In real life, you snatch your fingers away.

That was definitely not it.

_Lovers, we were lovers._

Asra stirs.

Shaking, you reach for what you think will hide the darkest secrets — a small black tower in the middle of his colorful oasis. It looks like a miniature version of the castle, and you can just tell it’s hiding something.

Reality begins to waver as soon as your fingers draw near. Gritting your teeth, you press on and grasp it.

* * *

 

**II.**

The castle. Nadia’s castle.

_Nadia?_ You think. _Who —_

You don’t have time to think too hard. Asra is striding down a long, dark hallway illuminated in cold, brittle moonlight. You struggle to keep up with him. His red cloak swirls behind him.

You’re wearing something light and airy, maybe something meant for sleep. You just know it’s cold — bitingly cold.

“Asra — wait.”

“We can’t wait. Not right now.”

A shadow sweeps in from the right, and you squeak in shock and surprise. It’s that big doctor from the other memory. Ilya. He falls into stride with you both until Asra slows down.

“Fair warning,” Ilya says. “His highness is in a pissy mood.”

“I know. Why else would he summon me in the dead of night?”

“Probably to chastise you for sleeping. Or trying to.”

Asra bows his head and sighs. “How is Nadia?”

“Asleep. Coma.”

“Still?”

“Yep.”

Ilya lights up a long, dark cigar. Ribbons of some form a wreath around you.

“But she’ll live,” you hear yourself say. “Is that not enough?”

“Not enough when the Count himself might die,” Ilya responds. “You know he only cares about himself.”

He takes both you and Asra’s hands and leads you on through the cold palace.

The doctor’s touch is…intimate. You wonder how he knows you both.

Asra shoots one of his chilly looks at Ilya, who drops your hand immediately. “Sorry. I forgot not to touch your special someone.”

Before you or Asra can retort, Ilya flings open a door at the end of the corridor.

* * *

 

**III.**

Opulence. You’ve never envied people’s material things, but you can’t deny the dazzling beauty of the Count’s chambers.

Rubies hang on golden chains from the ceiling, a suspended rain of blood. Tapestries writhing with animal-headed figures adorn the walls.

On a sea of white furs on a four-poster, canopied bed, Count Lucio languishes in a snowy robe.

You step closer to see him better.

He grabs the neck of your airy nightclothes and exhales onto your face. In his breath you can smell the miasma and death eating him alive.

Asra snatches you away. You put your hands on your knees and heave, but nothing comes up.

“Lucio,” Asra snaps.

“That’s _Count_ Lucio to you, magician.” He hoists himself up on one arm and sneers weakly.

“Count, then. Why did you come gather us out of bed in the small hours of the morning? The cure won’t be found if we can’t see straight.”

Light comes into Lucio’s eyes, then. They’re reddened to bloodshot by the Plague.

“Funny you should say that.”

You and Asra are silent.

The Count continues, “You see, it’s my opinion, magician, that you’re not seeing straight already. That curing this Plague hasn’t taken over your very soul the way it has mine. And there’s only one reason I can think of why it hasn’t.”

With a trembling, emaciated arm, he points at you. Somehow it feels like an arrow landing between your eyes.

You stumble back as shadow-clad guards erupt from the sides of the room. Your arms and shoulders are seized by rough hands. You’re lifted bodily into the air, your feet struggling for purchase on the ground.

Asra roars in anger and stumbles after you as the guards heave you into the mausoleum-cold hallway. Ilya, of course, is gone.

* * *

**IV.**

In reality, you snatch your hand away from the memory palace.

Asra is awake, watching you with unfathomable indigo eyes.


	4. (Interlude) Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asra wakes up and tells you (almost) everything.

* * *

 

“What happened to _my dreams are not your property?_ ”

You look up in fear.

His purple eyes gaze back at you calmly, hooded by snowy white lashes. Most of the candles have burned down to waxy pools, but a few points of flickering light drip gold along his cheekbones.

There’s no shock in his voice, no hurt that you would violate his inner world.

His voice is deeply kind.

It’s that kindness that reaches inside of you and deeply undoes you. Shaking, you collapse against him. He enfolds you in a warm, allspice-scented embrace.

For a second it’s all too real: the Count’s accusing finger, the guards dragging you away…

“I’ve got you,” Asra breathes into your ear. “I’m not going to let you go.”

You close your eyes. “Asra, what happened to me?”

“You’re not going to find it inside of my memories.”

“Why not?”

A faint chill enters his voice, like the night sky around the harvest moon.

“Because he wouldn’t let me see you. Though I tried.” His fingers weave gentle, protective sigils up and down your shoulders and back. His touch is warm.

“I scried. I dream-walked. I fist-fought the guards and lost. Nothing worked for months, and for that I was…ashamed.”

“Ashamed…why?”

“You were the most important person to me,” he says. “And everyone always spoke of _Asra the Powerful_ and _Asra the Talented._ But here I was, being stopped by someone I’m not even sure was a true sorcerer.”

His grip around you tightens.

“And one day, you were released. I was kneeling outside when you stumbled out of the tower, bleeding, in rags. I gathered you into my arms and looked into your eyes.”

A light shiver tingles between your shoulders. Your fingers curl around Asra’s wrist.

“And?”

His voice is a bare whisper. “You didn’t remember who I was. You didn’t remember who _you_ were. As punishment for not finding a cure, he took you from me. Or so he thought.”

When you look at Asra’s face, the fierceness there surprises you. It’s a dark, ferocious look, ebony midnight in his indigo eyes.

He says, “But even if you weren’t there—you were still mine.”

His eyes burn into yours.

“You and I promised that we would never give up on each other. And I was going to keep that promise, no matter what.”

You quiver against him. You feel magic in those words — _keep that promise._ The magic runs deep, like an underground stream.

You wonder what tongue you bound each other together with. Something ancient and full of life-force.

“What happened to the Count?” you finally venture to ask.

Asra stiffens beside you. Far away, a memory whispers that this stiffening is a tell. It happens right before Asra lies.

Or — not when he lies. But when he doesn’t tell the whole truth.

“He died,” Asra says.

“Of the Plague?”

“I’m not sure.” A memory — Asra’s — of smoke and char.

“But he’s gone?” You go limp with relief against his chest until you release he isn’t answering.

Instead, Asra cradles you, humming quietly. An old lullaby, though you don’t recognize it. His lips form ancient words — a chant, an invocation that sends you to sleep against his chest.

 


	5. The Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guest interrupts a building argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No lemons this chapter; sorry.

* * *

The next day dawns cloudy. Cold rain spatters down from close gray clouds.

Vesuvia in the rain always feels particularly downtrodden, but mere water can’t stop all forms of commerce.

Leaning on your hand, looking through rain-glossed windows, you watch a soaked parade of people wander by.  The rich, carnelian red and mysterious blue of passerby’s robes stands out against the silver sky.

Asra seems to be avoiding moving too fast, or being too loud. Like he’s afraid you’re made of spun glass.

A few times, he starts and stops talking.

“I’m sorry for riffling through your memories,” you say suddenly. “That was uncalled for, wasn’t it?”

He settles down across from you at the table, his hands curled around a cup of warm tea.

“Before you lost yours, we cast that spell monthly. As a way to connect with one another.” His purple eyes are distant, lost in the wreaths of steam rising from the cup. “We were hungry to see the few times we were apart.”

Hearing that, the sudden weight of missing memories upon memories crashes down on you.

You take the cup of tea — he brought you one as well. “Well, I know what we were. But what are we now?”

His gaze levels with yours. He must not have slept well last night. He looks tired, spent.

He spreads those warm, brown hands in a gesture of supplication. “Whatever you want us to be. But whatever that is, I’m never letting go of you again.”

_But I’m not the same!_ You want to shout.

There’s no time for this argument — three quick, solid raps sound on the door.

Fuming, you answer it, and the chimes above tinkle in welcome.

A tall, imposing hooded figure sweeps into the shop. The door slams so hard that it shakes the floor beneath your feet.

For a moment, there’s only ringing silence, punctuated by the _tap-tap-tap_ of rain.

The figure draws back their hood, revealing an aquiline nose, strong brows, and smooth brown skin just a shade darker than Asra’s. Those strange orange-yellow eyes pierce into yours, like a tigress’s.

Before you can react, Asra is kneeling, tugging your hand to kneel too.

“Countess,” he says. “It’s a pleasure and honor to see you inside our humble shop.”

“Arise, most high magicians. I have no patience for your kowtowing.”

You both get to your feet, dusting yourselves off.

The Countess’s eyes linger on your face, drawing heat into your cheeks like water from a well. Then she looks away.

“Forgive my abruptness, but both of you are required at the palace. I would’ve sent some of my underlings, but…I don’t know who to trust.”

You shoot a confused look at Asra, but he looks just as baffled as you do.

After a beat, he clears his throat. “And for how long do you need us?”

“I’m not sure. It may be for some time.”

She glances around the shop, not with disgust…with something you recognize.

That look. That look you have on your own face when you almost remember something.

The Countess’s eyes meet yours again. You survey one another, and you can feel her eyes traveling from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. She’s a woman who isn’t used to being denied.

This time, Asra _pointedly_ clears his throat. “I assume my apprentice is coming with me.”

_That answers that question,_ you think. _Of what we are now. I’m his apprentice._ Your heart beats slowly, painfully.

“Of course.” The Countess shakes herself, dazed. “I fear that I have need of you both.”

Without further ado, she sweeps both of you outside.

* * *

 

Her carriage awaits.

You wonder why she bothered hiding her face with her hood — the carriage so obviously belongs to nobility. Proud black with glittering gold accents, it’s pulled by four pure white palfreys.

Their braided manes frizz slightly in the rain. They snort and stomp until Asra calms one with a gentle pat on the forehead.

You all huddle inside.  With a lurch, the carriage starts off.

The Countess’s disconcerting orange gaze is riveted to you, so much so that Asra puts a protective arm around your shoulders.

Catching herself, the Countess blinks and shades her forehead with her hand.

“Forgive me…it’s just…”

“Go on,” Asra says. “You’re obviously under the impression you can trust us, or else we would not be here.”

“My memories of everything — my marriage to the Count, the past few years — they’re all gone. And yet, your apprentice calls to something deep inside of me. I can almost see their face…”

She trails off, closing her eyes. You and Asra wait for more. She says nothing.

When she says nothing else for a few moments, you decide to try something.

You take Asra’s hand and press two fingers to his pulse point on his wrist. You can feel his heartbeat.

_Asra, can you hear me?_

He twitches like a startled dog. That means yes. He’s surprised at how quickly the magic is coming back to you now. You are too, but there’s no time to think about it.

_Who is this woman and how do we know her?_

It takes a moment, but you feel his presence permeating your mind. It’s like filling you with saffron-colored light, and you swear you can smell ginger. You relish his warmth — but you feel his hesitation.

Your grip tightens.

_Asra…I’m hellbent on remembering everything. Just tell me. Preferably before I make an ass of myself._

_Nadia,_ his voice whispers. _Her name is Nadia, and she’s the ruler of Vesuvia. We used to be…her advisers._

He looks away.

You press him. _Is that all?_

_We were close._

His jaw is clenched tightly, pupils pinprick small. A new mystery dawns on you.

Why is Asra the only one with his memories intact?

He senses this thought and pulls away, his yellow aura dispersing after him. It’s like losing the breath in your lungs; you miss his presence at once.

“Countess,” he says smoothly. “Why do you require our services?”

She cracks open one citrine-colored eye. “Please don’t think I’ve forgotten the basic tenets of courtesy. Some things go deeper than memory, and into bone and blood. You two will have a warm bath with Nenivon salts, a sumptuous dinner. Then we’ll talk business.”

She settles back and watches the road pass through a tiny slitted window.

Curiosity sated for now, Asra sits back too, and gently kneads your wrist.

_Things were complicated even before you lost your memories,_ he thinks to you. _This city swirled with intrigue._

You lean against him. _Nothing the two of us can’t handle._

The corner of his mouth lifts.

_That sounds like the you I used to know._

* * *

The magnificent golden palace spires sparkle through the slanting rain, looming over the rest of the city like great metal gods.

The carriage pulls through an ornate gate, alongside a roaring goat-shaped marble fountain.

A red-haired girl with curious eyes helps the countess dismount, who helps Asra, who helps you.

Asra and the Countess — Nadia — bow to each other.

“Tell me,” she says off-handedly, ignoring the way you gape at the soaring columns and white stone and blossoming plumeria. “What sleeping arrangements would you like?”

“One room for both of us, please,” Asra says.

And then you feel it. A cold stab of dread at the base of your neck.

Nadia’s smile turns winsome. “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”

She leads you both inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do y'all feel about threesomes between you, a gorgeous lady, and a handsome magician? Let me know so I can write the next chapter accordingly.


	6. In the Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once inside the palace, things begin to come together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small lemon at the end. Thank you for all your kind comments! They help me write faster.

* * *

 

The inside of the palace is red. Strikingly red. As you walk inside, alongisde Asra, the walls flow by in an undulating sea of crimson and gold. It’s frigid in here.

The faint stirrings of your — memory? Nightmare? — congeal into a tiny block of ice at the base of your neck.

Nadia reaches for your hand, but something stops her from taking it. Perhaps it’s the glance from Asra. Not angry, or mean, but somehow piercing.

Outside a set of double doors, Nadia bows. You and Asra bow in return.

“Inside, you’ll find everything you need to make your stay as enjoyable as it can be, under the circumstances.” Her lilting voice holds no clues.

She departs in a soft swish of gossamer robe and dress, leaving you and Asra outside, waiting.  
He watches you with guarded lavender eyes. “Do you remember anything about this?”

“Does having half-formed, half-baked sensations count?”

“That’s a kind of memory, yes. I think. But I’m hoping we can relax.”

“In the palace, on business?”

A half-smile drifts across his face, lazily, like a cloud drifting across the sun. “You’d be surprised.”

With a little laugh, you step forward and take the doorknob in your hand.

Pain assaults you. Your temples — someone has driven steely shivs into them. Your world turns to swirling, static-lined gray and muddled black.

Far away, you feel yourself falling. Asra catches you, your name on his lips. He’s calling for you, the only sound in the swirling black.

There’s something else, too. Something worse. A white figure, with piercing carnelian eyes. With darkness throbbing in the place his heart should be. Horns twist wildly above his head, like thorned branch croppings. A long, low snarl — a sneer, revealing strangely pointed teeth. But worst of all is the white, the white of his fur. It’s the white of dead things, the chill anti-color of a pond frozen over a shipwreck. Flesh left to blanch in the sun.

A single clawed hand reaches for you. (Claws? Goats don’t have claws.) But yes, it’s a claw, sharp and prodding for you — driving closer and closer to your temple. You cringe. You wait for the first touch of pain, for it to drive in —

Someone is gently coaxing you awake.

Asra hovers above you, over you, protective. Strong. Warm.

And for a moment, everything comes back. All those years of love. Adoration.

The way the sun paints his skin, turning the deep bronze into a golden color. The way it gilds his snowy hair.

As the chilling terror recedes from your limbs, it’s replaced with a bloom of love in your chest, a fire that feels like a shot of nevivon brandy.

You fling your arms around him. He flinches in surprise, then pulls you closer.

Now his gorgeous face is inches away from yours. His words are a whisper.

“What happened…?”

“There’s something in the palace.” Your voice is breathless. You weren’t sure what you were going to say until you said it. But yes: there is something here.

He stiffens, then, beneath your touch.

“What are you saying?”

“There’s something here, something —“ You reach for words. They slip through your fingers until you latch onto one. “Evil.”

“Evil is a strong word,” Asra whispers into your ear.

“Asra! I mean it!”

“Shhh. Relax.” He pulls you close. You lie there together for a moment.

Then, you realize that you’re lying together on the softest bed you can remember. (But considering that your memory stops on the shop’s bed, maybe that’s not saying much).

This bed is luxurious, cloud-soft, with an acre of fresh white linen, trimmed with crimson silk. A white canopy made of breathable fabric surrounds you and Asra both.

Against that background, he looks like an angel.

“Try to relax. Nadi hasn’t even told us what she suspects yet. There’s no reason to jump to conclusions.”

Nadi. Something inside you flinches at the familiar pet name.

“Asra.”

“We were just friends. But until we gather for the night, try to relax.”

He gestures at the room around you.

—

Orange sun, a heavy heady red-orange, slants in through the wall of glass to the right. The glass has shapes set in it — twining golden birds, unicorns with pearly horns. They catch the light.

Outside, on a balcony overlooking an endless tapestry of gardens, is a wooden pool. It’s a simple square of wood, but it holds water so clean and gorgeous in the sunlight that your entire body shrivels, craving it.

You look to Asra. He’s disrobing. In the golden light, his body is long, lean, angular. Proportioned in harmony, and sculpted from some soft wood, or maybe mahogany  
.  
Your eyes linger on his torso, trailing down his lean fox-like legs. He beckons.

“You want me to get undressed? Won’t other people in the palace see?”

“You really don’t remember, do you?” He cocks a white brow. Something about…naked masquerades.

Blushing a little, you disrobe.

He extends a palm to you and takes your hand, his fingers playing along the pulse beating steadily in your wrist.

He leads you through a sliding glass door with lilies, lilypads on it, out into the open air.

Refreshed from the garden, it’s slightly cool, smells of spring, and wraps your nude body like a silken sheet. Asra smiles and breathes in deep.

You wish you could keep this feeling forever: the delicious coolness, the sun painting him orange-bronze.

He snaps his fingers, and purple flames lick at the base of the strong wood. He takes your hand and dips it into the pool of water. It’s warm.

Now, his lavender eyes survey your body. His adam’s apple bobs. He seems almost shy.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to hold you.”

“In the water.” Your words sound stupid, even to yourself. “You don’t have to ask.”

“Good,” he breathes, then helps you inside the tub.

First, the warmth of the water — it envelops you, gently undoing knots in your muscles. It feels like bathing in air, with the sun tickling your nose and face.

Then Asra’s warm body. He pulls you into his arms, onto his lap as the water warms around you. His skin is slick, and you can feel his blood’s steady thrum against your skin.

“Do you like this?” he asks, and seems honestly concerned.

There are no words. You mutely nod.

His hands close over your chest, thumbs drawing gentle circles around your nipples, painting swirling spirals down your chest and around your navel. You relax into him, leaning up to press your lips to his neck. His pulse beats beneath your lips. You kiss it.

That inflames him. He stiffens against you. Now his hands dive down below your belly, cupping it, right above the heat of your sex. You wriggle against him to get more comfortable.

Even if you don’t remember, your body does.

In the water, it melts to him, forms with him as his lean, dexterous hand finds its way between your thighs. His thumb and index tickle you before he dives in. Then you’re panting and moaning and gasping against him, all while the sun sinks below the horizon, and a few lonely birds wing off to places unknown.


	7. The Count and the Countess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nadia plumbs the depths of your memories.

But the moment, of course, had to end.

It ended as the sun sank below the horizon, dappling the tall, stately pines with blood orange.

Asra helps you out of the tub, gently grasping your elbow. You stand naked, in plein air, as he towels you down. The towels are lush, of course. They smell faintly of lavender and myrrh.

Your body feels loose, relaxed. It’s too easy to forget the presence that you felt earlier — that icy glide down your spine, those eyes boring into your back. Asra pauses, completely casual around you though you’re both nude.

“Does this feel familiar? Any of this?”

You reach inside your mind, dusting away cobwebs, stretching toward some inner core inside yourself. There is something. A faint glimmer. A platter of fine cheese and wine, and hot water, and laughing maidens.

“…sort of?” Your brow wrinkles. “Maybe? Were there other people? “

Pink brushes his cheekbones. “Perhaps at one time. But that was long ago.”

Now it’s your turn to blush. “Really?”

“Well. Magicians do have a certain reputation.”

He gallantly leads you inside without saying anything else.

On the huge white bed are two diaphanous robes, silky, easy to look through as a butterfly’s wing. One pair is in your favorite color. The other is a deep purple, embroidered with moons, stars, suns, galaxies. Asra pulls that one on without hesitation.

You think for a moment as you pull yours on. The light fabric is like a kiss against your skin.

“Nadia doesn’t remember, either,” you say. “So who laid the robes?”

“The servants have long memories. I made sure of that.” He brushes your cheek with warm lips. An echo of a memory, bringing servants of all kinds little gifts. Painted tops, wooden birds, carven dragons. Bath salts that fizzled and sparked in the water.

“We…lived here. This was our second home.”

“Until Lucio ruined it.” Your voice is flat and cold. Ruined us, you think. Ruined everything.

Asra’s face hardens, too. “I sense some anger.”

“Yes.”

He leans very close to you. And though you’ve just had each other, your heart rate climbs again.

“You’ll want to be exceedingly careful with how you direct it. We don’t know who’s here to throw it back.”

 

—-

And so the moment was over. You and Asra sweep through the palace in your fine robes. Servants whisper and bow. The red tapestries hurt your head.

Asra seems to know where he’s going, though no one guides you.

You feel a particularly piercing chill alongside one of the doors, and you wonder – was that it? Was that the door Lucio dragged you through to torture you? Where all your memories vanished?

Asra’s hand closes around your wrist, insistent and more than a little painful.

“Keep your emotions close by.”

That old phrase. It tickles your temples. You said that to him whenever you two argued.

Huffing out a deep breath, you nod.

—

Nadia is waiting in a ballroom.

She looks radiant. Of course. In robes far more magnificent that you and Asra wear, draped in silky fans of lavender. Her wide sleeves ripple to the floor in a display of grandeur. Her bodice is lined by tiny golden butterflies, each with a different stone bejewling their wings. And in the candle light — for the ballroom is lit with candles — the wings, the shadows seem to shift like they’re alive.

Her magnificent dark mane is threaded with butterflies and teal thread dappled with gold. Her fingers steeple as she calmly regards you and Asra.

She gestures to the feast before you.

On a gold-lined table cloth, on red-rimmed platters, are every delicacy. Browned quail, peaches swimming in cream. Crème brulee. Ancient-grain rolls drizzled with honey. Pitchers of frothy milk.

Asra takes the seat nearest to her, gesturing to you to sit opposite him, beside her. It’s almost comical, the three of you sharing this table.

Predictably, Asra grabs a plate of dates and pops on in his mouth. The corners of his eyes crinkle.

“No memory, countess, but you still grow the finest dates in all the land. And I would know.”

“Oh?” Nadia arches a brow, gesturing for you to eat. “Are you a wandering date conniseur?”

“Of sorts,” Asra replies. You can’t help but laugh a little. Nadia smiles too, though she seems distracted.

“What I am about to tell you must be kept in complete confidence, magicians.”

“That won’t be a problem,” Asra says around another date. “We have no one to tell.”

Nadia closes her eyes, thinking. Asra encourages you to eat, so you pour a foaming glass of milk and sip it. It’s as thick as cream. The royalty eat unabashedly well.

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

You and Asra trade glances. How to answer? Asra cocks his head, motioning for you to respond.

“That’s an…interesting question, countess. I suppose it depends on how one defines a ghost.”

“What do you mean?”

Straight to the point, then.

“Well, there are ghosts. The departed, who were once living. Often, for their dead spirit to make an impact, they would have had to die in…extreme pain.”

“Of what kind?”

Despite the milk, your mouth is dry. “Any pain, really. Torture. False execution. Misery.”

“Hm. It’s possible that this castle yet teems with ghosts, then.” The countess stirs her glass of wine with her finger. “In the dungeons. In the walls.”

“Why do you ask, Countess?” Asra cuts in.

It’s inappropriate, but with his open-throat robe, that snowy drift of white hair across his brow, he looks irresistable again.

Nadia pauses. Something flashes over that well-bred face that looks out of place.

Unsureness.

You and Asra wait while she sips her wine, then buries her face in her hands. She wets her lips. “I’ve seen something here, in the castle.”

“A ghost?” Asra asks. His voice is unusually deep and piercing.

“Something like that. Something —“

“White. With red eyes. And claws that shouldn’t be there,” you finish.

Now Nadia looks at you in shock. You’re shocked, too, when a tear forms at the corner of her eye.

“So he’s here. He is real.”

“Is it him?” Asra looks afraid. But you can tell that he’s not afraid of the ghost.

He’s afraid for you.

Nadia swallows hard. “I’m afraid so. I’m afraid…it’s Lucio.”

The candles burn lower in the dining room, some of them turning to glossy pools.

A wraithlike servant with fiery hair extinguishes most of the candles, leaving a few oil lamps burning with a guttering glow.

“I don't remember much about my life with the Count,” Nadia says hesitantly. “I was hoping...”

“We would.” Asra steeples his fingers. “And who mentioned that we might?”

“Oh, when I awoke, one of the first things the servants whispered was your name, Asra. You and your...” Those regal eyes meet yours again. “Friend's.”

“Friend. A good word.” You nod.

“Unfortunately, my friend lost their memories too,” Asra says. He sounds sad, but he forces a smile. “I still have most of mine. Most of mine that I care to remember.”

“That's great news.” Now Nadia's face searches Asra's intensely. “Can you tell me about him?”

Asra looks from Nadia to you, his eyes asking permission. You nod. Clearly, helping the Countess of Vesuvia was much more important than your own comfort.

You and Nadia lean in as Asra prepares to speak.

“Count Lucio was part of a family of aristocrats that ruled Vesuvia for many years. He was the youngest son of the old Count, and by far his least favorite. There were rumors that the old Count would lock him in the dungeons for many hours to toughen him up, so to speak. But still, he grew up a fine statesman.” Asra pauses to sip milk. “That's about the only kind thing I can say about him.”

“Yes. Apparently my disdain for Lucio was somewhat legendary.”

“And why not? You were a Princess of Prakra. You remember that, yes?”

The Countess's eyes soften. “Yes.”

“That kingdom was eight times as rich as Vesuvia, so much better put together. Though my heart is here. And yet, in your haste to leave your hometown and escape the shadows of your sisters --”

“I agreed to marry Lucio.” The Countess kneads her temples. “If I hadn't been so hasty, none of this would have happened.”

“Don't say that.” On impulse, you take her hand. She draws away like your fingers carry an electric shock. Then she softens into your touch. “You had no way of knowing about or preventing the plague.”

“Thank you for that. That's very kind.” Her eyes linger again, then turn to Asra. “What else?”

“He was a proud, impotent, bellowing buffoon,” Asra says casually. “Something of an idiot.”

“A fair assessment.”

“And I'm fairly sure he was abusive.”

“Towards me?” Nadia's voice has dropped an octave and is icy in tone.

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“Many of them. And you, being a woman of your caliber, decided not to stand for it.”

Silence weaves its way between you three, and hangs there. You can almost feel the presence. It tickles the edges of your magic, nibbling at it. It wants to taste you.

With a shudder, you say, “Asra, what else are you thinking?”

“Lucio was so possessive that, even now, in death, I wonder...Nadia, are you seeing anyone else?”

Her eyes cut impulsively to the fire-haired servant still standing by the door. It's only an instant, but it's enough to let you and Asra know. You trade a glance and nod at one another.

“Perhaps that's what's drawn him out.”

“I didn't say anything,” Nadia says, but she doesn't sound upset.

“Well, if you were,” you say smoothly. “If you were seeing someone, that could...”

“Draw his ghost out.”

All at once, an eerie howl shakes the dining room, so deep that the candles and platters rattle. You and Nadia rise involuntarily, but Asra remains seated.

The howl continues, then dies abruptly.

Asra finishes his milk and sighs. “Still the same, full of boasting and loud noise.”

“Shall we walk?” The Countess' quivering comes to a standstill. She's tall and motionless like an oak.

Only you seem still affected, your limbs trembling like they're made of water.

Asra touches your hand. “Yes, let's go.”

_Midnight in the garden of good and evil._

The phrase loops through your mind over and over again, like an errant song.

Asra pauses before a giant tree, then leans against it. He quietly chants something that lines the area with a silvery border.

“It won't keep him out for long,” he says matter-of-factly. “But we have some time to plan. Nadi...are you serious about ridding the palace of Lucio's ghost?”

“Yes.” The answer comes at once, fierce and impossible to deny.

Asra nods, eyes fierce by the light of the stars and moon.

“Then we need a plan.”

 


	8. The Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Countess's memories bubble to the surface.

When Asra says he has an idea, he means it. And he means that he wants to end the scourge of Lucio that night.

After Nadia’s quiet, whispered “yes,” he takes you aside and whispers into your ear. His breath is hot and humid as a summer storm against your ear.

“I need to know. Are you serious in your dedication to ending this?”

You nod.

“It’s frightening, though. If we pull this off…your memories might come back. All of them.” He swallows, and it clicks in his throat.

Silence, punctuated by late summer crickets, hangs like a tapestry between you. They whirr and click, oblivious to the coming of winter.

You close your eyes and breathe in. Yes, you loved this part of the year. And all the other parts, too. But for this part, you loved the haze, the hazy twilights, laughter, candles, clinked glasses.

Nadia is eyeing you and Asra nervously, her eyes darting between the two of you, bright with concern.

“I need you to be sure,” Asra whispers.

As if that were a question if your sureness. As if the idea of reclaiming your memories of being lovers wouldn’t drive you to do anything.

“Just tell me what we need to do.” You nod. “Just tell me.”

* * *

 

Fewer than twenty minutes later, you, Nadia, and Asra are seated around a round stone table. More candles glisten atop it.

But these candles are chosen from Asra’s bag. They smell of myrrh, are a pale yellow. Clearly from some faraway land, and all the more potent for it.

“Step one. We gather your memories, Countess.”

Nadia’s eyes widen. “Recover them?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Regardless, my friend and I need to see them, even if you don’t remember them when we’re done.” Asra speaks patiently. Only you can catch the undertow of sadness coursing through his voice. “We may…see things we’re not meant to. And I apologize for that. But it’s the only way.”

Nadia acquieses immediately. It’s sort of shocking, how eager she is to get it over with. But maybe that part’s not terribly surprising.

“And how do we do that?”

“Well, first. We should join hands.”

Nadia nods and takes your hand. It’s warm, soft, dry. Asra’s familiar grip fills your other hand.

Instinctively, you lean forward.

It’s easier to cast the thought-seizing spell on someone that’s asleep, but there’s no time.

Asra leans into you again and whispers, “I need you to do this.”

“Why me?”

“Because I’ll need all my energy if we do flush him out.”

A slight quiver runs up your spine at that thought. But you bite down on it, take a deep breath, and nod.

“Nadia. Countess.”

Her spine straightens. “Yes?”

“I need you to relax. You can focus all your energies on someone who calms you, if you like.” Your grip on her hands tightens.

She breathes in and out, slowly, obviously a practitioner of mindfulness. That should make this easier.

Asra subtly nods, light refracting off his purple irises.

Nadia leans back in a trance. It’s an opportunity. You send a pulse of silver magic through her veins, watching as it branches beneath her skin, shimmering like a silver river.

On the surface of her body, things begin to appear. Small, shimmery objects woven of memories and emotion.

Hanging by her shoulder, a soft pink-orange gown, rippling in the breeze. You can hear an echo of her sisters’ laughter from it.

On her right arm, a dainty twinkling bronze crown. Beside it, a minute glass of purple wine. You can almost hear Asra’s voice coming from it.

But right in the center is a small, hand-sized bird cage, with bent purple bars. A faint black miasma hangs inside of it.

Asra’s gaze urges you forward, to reach out and touch it. You break your connection with him, missing the feel of his skin immediately, and reach out and touch it.


	9. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all over.

When you reach out and touch the birdcage, everything changes.

The chill that was concentrated in your spine grows wings. You’re enveloped in a cold, damp embrace. It sits heavily against your skin, permeating deep down into your core — where you actually reside in your body.

The palace. You recognize it. Red lamps hang above your head, casting a ruddy, paltry glow. The walls are white marble.

You’re in a black room, with a black box about as tall as you, but thin. Ah, so that was the torture, then.

And at once, your powers come back to you. The world grows a forest of whispers that ring hollowly in your ears. You close your eyes, and you can hear the wind brushing through the trees. Whispering through leaves, where small animals hunt for their next prey. You can hear their heartbeats.

The magic is there, waiting. But something isn’t.

Your eyes flutter open to contemplate the black box. It’s made of something, something that takes your magic and turns it inward, against you.

A hollow realization builds in your throat. It’s cold.

The memories…

They’re gone. Forever.

Tears spring into your eyes. He destroyed them — most of them. All those vivid days alongside Asra, cavorting and drinking, laughing and crying. They’re gone. Your life has, essentially, been erased.

You sink to your knees with the enormity of the loss. Tears brim in your eyes. You reach inside, grasping, but there’s nothing. Just hopelessness.

And now, the room is filling with black water. It’s thick, viscous, like tar bubbling up out of the ground.

You stand up in a hurry, sweeping it off your clothes.

He’s standing there, opposite you, clad in hoary white fur. A shambling wreck of a man. A beast. Missing a limb. With coal-black eyes that look like holes in his head. As you watch, they flare to life, an ugly, decaying red.

Where are the Countess’s memories? This wasn’t what Asra had planned. But it’s too late.

The water-tar rises to your waist, and Lucio begins to grow, grow until he’s tall enough for his horns to touch the ceiling. He’s sprouted extra limbs that wave and beckon, flopping bonelessly. None of them replace his missing arm.

He roars in agony, shaking the ground, walls, and ceiling, revealing a maw crammed to the brim with sharp black teeth. The water-tar is dripping from his gums.

He’s trapped between two worlds, belonging to none. And it’s hurting him.

You pause. The water pauses at your waist, sloshing gently. He glares down at you.

You have a choice.

Turn your magic against him — harness the black tide that surrounds you — and drown him in ink, flushing him out.

But as Asra always says (you remember?), “There’s always another way.”

You lift your chin defiantly against the man-beast who tortured you.

“Give me my memories back and I’ll free you.” Your voice doesn’t shake.

He roars again, more loudly. This time, black tendrils like snakes issue from his mouth. He’s in torment, agony. The water-tar laps calmly around you, but on him, it’s sprouting tentacles that have teeth.

And you realize something. You’ve trapped him. Your magic has trapped his soul here, here where he tortured you. You’ve been afraid of him, but now you have control.

“Give them back!” Your voice rings off the walls and ceiling, clear, unafraid. Without a trace of quiver. You’re in control now.

He glares at you, vacantly, with sullen hatred.

The black water begins to coalesce around your fists.

“Give them back, and I’ll release you.”

His voice rumbles. “I bow to no one.”

“There’s no bowing involved!”

 _There’s always another way,_ Asra whispers somewhere inside of you.

Maybe your memories are written somewhere deeper that you don’t have access to, inscribed on your skin or in your blood.

So thinking, you step forward.

The black water clings to your legs and feet, slowing your tread. At the same time, more tendrils flap wetly out of the black, wrapping themselves around Lucio, and pulling him down. Holding him, so he can’t move.

And there’s more. Your hands are thrumming, silver and black and lavender (Asra’s magic), casting a brilliant white glow against the darkness.

Slowly you approach him, your skin thrumming with anticipation.

 

* * *

 

“Where’s your friend?” Nadia asks, looking around.

“Gone,” Asra says. His eyes dart around the garden. “They vanished.”

“…what?”

“Nadi — Countess Nadia —“

Her eyes soften. “Is that what you called me? Nadi?”

“Yes.”

“I like that.”

“In the meantime, I think we should pray for their safe return.”

He bows his head and takes Nadi’s hands.

* * *

 

Wherever you are, you reach out and place your hand on Lucio’s forehead. The fur is rich, white, and plush. Soft.

You dig your nails into his flesh and feel him writhe beneath you. The light is burning him. So are the black tendrils.

For a long moment, you two regard each other — black-red eyes to your own. Your grip tightens.

“Give me the memories.”

He laughs, and that’s when you make your decision.

_“Forgive me,” Asra says in memory. “I’ve always tried to walk the right hand path, but it wasn’t always possible.”_

_And another memory from longer ago, over cups of oolong tea: “As a magician…it’s not always possible to spare everyone.”_

How to describe the change? It’s like a shift inside of you, a slight movement to the left.

Yes, you and Asra’s secret. Magicians like you — good ones — were always meant to walk the right hand path.

And yet, those offenders in Vesuvia, those molesters and abusers, often wound up dead. Sometimes by a suspiciously snake-like mark around the neck. Sometimes by poison.

Is this what he meant when he said he feared you getting all your memories back?

Was he trying to remake his own image in the ideal of the flawless, faultless magician?

You know the truth is much more complicated.

Perhaps this is what that black box turned against you — the memories and souls of all those you both killed.

Always the happy tears of the survivors…

The happy tears of Nadia.

Your grip tightens, digging into his skull.

“I killed you,” you whisper.

“Yes.” His voice is a faint hiss of wind. He knows it’s almost over.

“I condemned you. And you deserved it.”

“And that’s why you forgot.” His eyes smolder with rage and hatred.

There’s nothing left to say. The brilliant light around your hands coalesces into white, shining daggers. You’re surrounded by a floating, radiant halo of them.

The choice is yours.

And you choose what Asra would have wanted you to.

One by one, the daggers fly into him. Into his chest, into his head. At first he grunts at every strike. Then his body jerks, lifeless as a puppet at each new impact.

You keep going. As with the black water, the soul-lock, you can’t control it. Daggers form from the air, flash like silver doves, and dissolve as they fly through his body.

And soon, as the great goat begins to split apart, there’s a softer radiance. Points of light.

As the dagger storm continues, you reach out toward the light.

That’s all you and Asra ever can do.

* * *

 

**_Epilogue_ **

You awake beneath a certain tree in the garden.

The first fingers of dawn are brushing the curtains of night back from the sky, revealing a pearly rose pink.

Faust slides up your arm and gently licks your cheek, sending a tingle down your spine.

He’s there, Asra, dressed in that same floating lavender robe.

That same robe he wore to Nadia’s countless events…

He wore it to get pumpkin bread one morning, and you both laughed at the shopkeepers who turned to stare at his muscular chest. You remember what he looked like when he was young, how he cupped your face for the first time on the beach.

You sit up, and Faust coils around your shoulders.

“I —“

“Remember. You remember.” He kneels beside you in the dew-laden grass, then embraces you.

It washes over you.

Years.

Perfume, cardamom, sweet pumpkin bread and spiced coffee, a tangle of joyous limbs, red thread, dark scarlet fabric, and the love you shared.

And the magic. You’re radiating it like the sun. The dawn-touched garden is radiating silver swirls of light that shift and move in opalescence.

Asra’s eyes crinkle, but you can see a shimmer of tears there.

He looked at you like that once before, at your wedding. You’re married to him. And it’s like getting married all over again, the joy that crashes over you.

He extends a hand and pulls you up.

“Nadi is waiting with breakfast. She remembers everything, too.”

As Faust hangs between both of you, you head towards the palace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, finished this before my birthday! If you enjoyed this story, it would mean a lot if you shared it with any Arcana blogs or with your friends. My Tumblr is also vOceanic if you want to tag me in anything. Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
